Of All Clichés
by The 0dd 0ne
Summary: "This isn't a movie or a fairy tale. We probably won't get a happy ending. And I can't be Superman for you. But I can love you." /or/ He can't remember what outfit she wore when he first met her & he can't clearly envision the way she smiles at him & he would trade her for an end to all the chaos. But he's never felt so right with anyone before. One-shot / May be revisited R


He doesn't need someone whose heartbeat matches his, or whose eyes shine with polished innocence, or whose fingers wrap gingerly around his palm as if weaving their hands together, or whose lips mold against his rhythmically, or whose smile sets his world ablaze. He just lusts after dark strands of strawberry blonde & analyzing green orbs & her shattered set of mind.

They will never be in synch or perfectly imperfect or desperately, longingly in a state of fantasy. Just broken shards scattered in a blob, blending so dully into the blurred black & white background. They have been kicked down & clawed at until they'd become so jaded as to merely be fractured fragments of who they used to be once upon a normal time. A time before gleaming crimson & bloodthirsty amber & lunar dominance. Long before his nervous compliments stopped being background noise & her fingertips brushed his forearm during long nights of research.

But the lines are so blurred, so suppressed, he can't recall a date of change. It simply happened. Scott didn't suddenly stop wheezing. Derek didn't abruptly "end" his uncle's life. Jackson didn't just dump Lydia. Allison wasn't instantaneously eased into werewolves & hunters. It all blends in his memory.

Still, he can't quite locate himself in the attacks or pinpoint sarcasm in the audio.

And he can barely even remember the times before Lydia walked down the hall with him. It's all blood & bodies & screams against pale reflections of delirium & myths.

There is, however, a question he has been nursing: would he trade the precious moments of quiet banter with Lydia for peace?

. . .

His heart aches against his ribs at the thought of her missing.

Yet, the option is fresh in his mind like inked words on paper.

He thinks, maybe, if all the hurt & murder & suffering would leave & everything would just be him & Scott on the bench during Lacrosse making quips about the douchebags & Greenburg, if his memories of Lydia just left . . . he thinks, maybe, if he wouldn't feel the strange hollowness or the pangs of regret as strawberry blonde flashed through his head, he would.

Because this is not a fairy tale. Life is not a cliché.

. . .

But, before those nights with her & the broken fire in her eyes as she whispered of pain & vulnerability to him left, he'd want to see how it all began.

He thinks, but don't hold him to it, that it started with a corpse. Derek's older sister . . . half the body . . . let's find it . . . crunching leaves . . . howling . . . screams. He remembers running. Running through the dark trees & past the blood-curdling scream. Because he is not a knight in shining armor. He is scared. A scared, ordinary boy caught up in demons & trolls. He's Scott's muggle best friend; no powers, no abilities, nothing.

After the corpse . . . he can't remember. Scott . . . bit . . . heightened senses . . . something about Jackson & accusations of steroids . . . Allison. The brief little glimpses, what do they have to do with Lydia?

Nothing.

A flash, the smallest recollection. Lydia, something about Lydia & the woods & nudity & he remembers seeing an angel. Absolute perfection.

The rest is a blur; ice skating, a dance, locked in, alpha, Peter, homemade molotov, kill your pack, Lydia's arms around his neck & tingling warmth filling him.

Then, Gerard, manipulative bastard, hardened Allison, Allison's mom tried to kill Scott, everyone killed everyone, Isaac, Erica - oh, _God,_ Erica, Boyd, break up, Lydia resurrecting Peter, Jackson is the Kaniba, the feeling of his heart breaking.

Now, his English teacher, his God damn English teacher, is a freaking muderous monster & Lydia is a Banshee & everyone was kidnapped & sacrificed & Scott _still_ hasn't seen Star Wars &, speaking of Scott, he's a freaking True Alpha & his dad's back in town & Jackson is in London & Derek left with Cora & Allison & Isaac are together & Lydia kept drawing trees & Peter is really effing charismatic for a madman who killed his niece for power & Lydia _kissed_ him.

The warmth of her lips moving against his & that dizzy feeling like fireworks & laughing & dancing & raindrops against bare skin & glistening stars all at once coursing through him.

He wants to feel that unfathomable, beautiful pressure against his lips as he trades those moments he should've guarded closely to his heart for no more werewolves & all those wasted lives. And he wants to feel her cold palm against his cheek as their lips mush together in a mess of feeling. Then, as the pressure lifts & she vanishes from his life, he would hold his breath.

Because, of all clichés, he chooses the one where he can at least feel her heart beating to a different rhythm.


End file.
